


Omega Dreams in Neon Lights

by tetrahedron



Category: Mass Effect, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, neon noir, post-ME1
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-28 07:44:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11413362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tetrahedron/pseuds/tetrahedron
Summary: They say even dead gods can dream. Sometimes dead men do too.





	1. World Without Law

The first time Aria’s men show up with her proposal, he’s too high to understand what they want.

He watches with interest as their mouths produce a slow, distorted loop of vowels, the resulting sound not unlike the songs sung by large sea-dwelling mammals in order to attract mates. After a minute or two of fascinated observation, his attention drifts away, caught like a leaf in the riptide. When he resurfaces, they’re long gone.

But they come back the next week. And again the week after that.

His hopes rise when they start to get pushy about it. It’s been so long since he’s had an excuse to use his rifle. He discovers that as long as he pops a few stims he can force his concentration back into something bearing a resemblance to his old skill.

The next week passes in a blur of anticipation. He moves around the squat with purpose, humming under his breath, full of an eager, restless energy.

It doesn’t last.

A few disappointing shoot-outs are all it takes for him to conclude that the quality of thug that ends up hocking red sand to strippers in the Terminus doesn’t quite live up to the standard set during his brief tenure on the Normandy. Just to keep things interesting, he starts randomly alternating between concussive rounds and live ammo, so neither he nor they will know when a shot will maim or merely stun. He figures it’s a fair handicap, but they must disagree, because they soon stop coming around altogether, and he’s left to his own devices once again.

His father always said that self-discipline built character. He’s only a civilian now, but he still does his best to stick to a daily routine: wake up, shoot up, make his way to Afterlife. The routine gets a little blurry after that, but most afternoons he comes to back in the squat, so he figures it’s all working out.

But when the blue girl behind the bar tells him he’s been cut off, and even the sewer vorcha refuse to sell to him, Garrus Vakarian figures it’s finally time to listen to whatever the self-titled Queen of Omega has to say.

...

The only other people in Afterlife at this hour are the bar’s hard-line regulars, who sit clustered around the counter with the single-minded devotion of insects circling a light bulb. Any other day Garrus would have joined them. Now he merely nods at one or two of them as he passes, and is rewarded by a hard shove from behind.

“Keep moving,” Bray grunts.

He spares one longing glance back at the gleaming bottles of liquor neatly ensconced on their shelves, but continues walking, propelled forward by the itchy spot between his shoulder-blades where their guns are trained. Grizz and Bray follow closely behind him. Moving in a tight triangle, they make their way up the stairs to the padded dais where Aria stands in sharp relief against the flashing lights of the main stage.

“Vakarian,” she says, without turning around. “So good of you to join us.” She motions to a couch. ”Take a seat.”

Two heavy hands come down hard on his shoulders. Garrus sits.

Aria leans forward over the balcony, the neon lights playing across her profile in a collage of color and shadow. “I’m aware that you turians have your own name for this station,” she begins, her fingers tightening on the railing.

In his native tongue the name holds the weight of a warning and a promise: " _the World Without Law"_. As a child he’d imagined a faraway land of danger and intrigue, free from the oppressive rules and regulations of his homeworld. At the recollection, his mouth twists into something that is not quite a smile. It’s thousands of light years from Omega to Palaven, but the distance between his present self and the naive young boy he’d once been feels even further.

Aria’s voice jolts him out of his thoughts. “But contrary to what your people may believe, there is one law on Omega.”

Garrus clears his throat. “What’s that?” he asks, his voice rusty from disuse.

She turns to stare at him, her eyes flat and hard. “Don’t fuck with Aria.”

“Right,” he says, looking around the VIP lounge with detached amusement. On the holoscreen above the stage, an enlarged asari tilts her head back, her eyes closed and her mouth half open in simulated ecstasy. He lets his gaze linger on her lips. “Well, my memory isn’t what it used to be, but I like to think I’d remember breaking that one.“

Aria’s nostrils flare. “You’ve been shooting my men.”

“Those were yourmen?” Garrus rubs his mandible, doing his best to look surprised. “And here I thought they were just a group of particularly determined door-to-door salesmen.”

“Cut the crap, Vakarian,” she snaps. “I think it’s fair to say that I’ve been exceptionally patient so far. Especially given that I’m trying to do you a favor.”

His amusement fades into a weary resignation. Whatever it is she wants from him, he'd just as soon skip the sales pitch. But this is her show, and as a quick glance to the armed guards blocking the exit confirms, he's got no choice but to play along.  “What have I done to earn a favor from you?” 

“Consider it a courtesy for all those credits you’ve been dropping at Afterlife.“ She sits down on the couch opposite his.

“I’d be happy to drop a hell of a lot more,” Garrus mutters, shifting restlessly on the couch. He’s been sober for three days now, and his plates itch like crazy. “But your bartender doesn’t seem to like my credits much these days.”

“Surena does what she’s told,” Aria says, glancing down at the bar. “She’ll serve you once you’ve heard me out.”

That’s easily the best news he’s had all week. “I’m listening.”

Aria smiles, and leans back against the banquette. “We get a lot of Hierarchy burnouts around here,” she says, nodding casually at the club. “You’d be surprised at how many come once they figure out they’re never going to make it any further up that golden ladder of yours. Not much glory in middle management.” She tilts her head to the side, studying him. “But that’s not why you came, is it? You’re looking for something else.”

“Yeah,” Garrus says, unease prickling like needles under his plates. “A drink.” He snaps his talons at her bodyguards.

Aria blinks at him, nonplussed. She nods at Grizz. He mutters something into an earpiece, and soon the blue girl from behind the counter- Surena - comes walking up the stairs with a glass tumbler full of golden liquid balanced on a tray. She puts it down on the low table between him and Aria, and hastily backs away.

“Top shelf Cipritine horosk,” Aria says with a careless wave of her hand. “I’m told it’s good stuff.”

It could be rubbing alcohol and he’d still down every last drop. He forces himself reach for it slowly, so she won’t see his hand shaking.

“If you’re worried it's been tampered with, you can test it out on Grizz,” she offers, mistaking his restraint for caution. Her lips twitch as she looks up at the grinning bodyguard. “No assurances you’ll get it back, though.”

“That won’t be necessary." If she'd really wanted him dead, there were easier ways to do it than a glass of poisoned horosk. Though frankly, at this point, even that wouldn't be much of a deterrent. He tips the glass gratefully into his mouth. The liquor goes down smooth as flattery, with a hint of gunsmoke that catches at the back of his throat in a slow, lingering burn he can feel all the way through his abdomen. The ache behind his eyes dissipates slightly, and the tension in his limbs begins to unspool.

“The shuttle you arrived on had you listed under a fake name,” he hears her say. “Seems like a lot of trouble to go to just for a drink.”

His hand tightens involuntarily around the glass. He swallows, careful not to choke. “I didn’t realize you took such a personal interest in your regulars."

“Not many of my regulars can claim to have put down a rogue Spectre,” she replies. “People around here tend get a little suspicious when someone with that kind of resume just shows up in the heart of Terminus one day.”

“I don’t give a damn what any of you do,” he says, the alcohol lubricating his throat and loosening his tongue. “I just want to be left alone.” He'd meant it as a warning, but it comes out disturbingly close to a plea.

“Funny,” Aria says, her eyes narrowing. “That’s not the impression Bray got when you chased him halfway through the Kima district. “

To calm himself, he swirls the tumbler, listening to the musical tinkle of the ice clinking against the glass. Privately he concedes it was possible he’d gotten a little carried away. But it had been worth it to watch the bulky batarian haul ass through the marketplace. “Figured I’d take the old-timer out for a jog,” he says, aiming a wink up at the bodyguard. “He looked like he could use the exercise.”

The batarian lurches forward, cursing and swinging out with the butt of his rifle. Garrus ducks the blow with practiced ease, reaching up to catch the barrel with one hand, twisting it out of his grasp. He gives Aria a wry shrug. "See what I mean?"

“Laugh it up, hotshot,” Bray growls down at him. “But it’s not gonna be me with my ass in the wind when the gangs catch up with you.”

“He’s right, you know," Aria says, watching him. “Sooner or later, someone’s going to take issue with a Council spook sniffing around their business.”

All trace of his good humor ebbs away. “I’m not here for the Council,” he says tersely, dropping the gun at her feet.

She nudges it back toward Bray with the side of her foot. “Maybe not,” she acknowledges. “But you’ve got Special Tactics stink all over you.”

A hot surge of anger rolls through him. To distract himself, he takes a moment to admire the way the tawny liquor glints in the dim light, the cold weight of the glass in his palm, the hiss and crackle of the ice as it melts. He raises it to his mouth and takes another long swallow, closing his eyes appreciatively. When he’s through, he carefully sets it down on the edge of the table.

“You really don’t know the first thing about me if you think I’d ever work with those bastards again,” he says, preparing to walk away.

“I know you were close with that human Spectre who got herself gunned down on the Citadel a few months back.”

Garrus freezes, his heartbeat pounding in his throat.

“What was CSEC’s official explanation for her death?” Aria muses. “‘Assassinated by geth’?” She sniffs. “Sounds kind of flimsy if you ask me. But then she didn’t have many friends on the Citadel after what happened to the original Council, did she?”

There is a dull ringing in his ears. Once again he sees the impact of the shot, watches Shepard's body crumple lifelessly to the floor. His talons convulse, and he stands up so quickly that his leg knocks against the edge of the table, almost toppling the empty glass. “I’ve heard enough.”

Grizz and Bray step forward to block his way.

“Sit down,” Aria commands, her voice radiating cold authority.

Abruptly there are two assault rifles trained on his face. Raising his palms, Garrus slowly sinks back down onto the couch.

“As I was saying,” Aria says. “She dies, and suddenly you wind up here, looking like ten kinds of hell. It doesn’t take the Shadow Broker to put two and two together. Maybe you’re out for revenge, or maybe you’re just working up the nerve to blow your brains out. I can’t say that I care much either way. But I could use someone with your skill set. And you could use an ally.”

Garrus blinks. “Are you offering me a job?” The ringing in his ears is fading, but the tension in his body remains. He rubs his brow-plates, trying to clear his head. “I’m flattered, but I doubt I’d fill out the uniform,” he says, nodding toward the screen where the asari writhes seductively against a pole.

Aria snorts. “I’m not interested in watching you dance." She leans back into the couch, her face falling half into shadow. “The arrangement I’m proposing will make you the most wanted man on Omega.”

His hand drops from his face. “What?” he says, squinting at her.

“Glad to see I finally have your attention,” she says with a satisfied smirk. She glances down over her shoulder at the floor of the club. “As you may or may not have noticed, there are many different factions here on Omega. Sometimes they get so caught up in their own petty bullshit that they forget who really runs this rock.” Her lip curls, and when her eyes shift back to his face he can see a hot glint of malice. “You’re a neutral party.”  

It takes him a beat to catch her meaning. “You expect me to take the heat for you?” He lets an edge of incredulity slip into his voice.

“Why not?” she says, her gaze sharpening. “You’re still an unknown here. The gangs might guess you’re working for me, but they won’t be able to prove it. I’ll provide you with intel and resources, but beyond that, you’ll be on your own.” Her eyes gleam in the shifting light. “It’ll be you against every mercenary on this station. Your own personal war.”

“That’s suicide,” he says, trying to ignore the frisson of excitement her words send rushing through his body.

She doesn't respond, just regards him silently from her position on the couch. Pinned under the weight of her gaze, Garrus is struck by the sudden, uncomfortable suspicion that she knows more than she's let on, that she can see through the careful layer of lies and half-truths he's constructed. His mouth goes dry, and he feels his heartbeat quicken in his chest. “Why would I agree to that?” he asks, shifting in his seat.

Aria lets the question hang for a moment between them. Then she smiles. “Because you’re an addict,” she says, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

He relaxes, tries not to let the rush of relief leak out into his words. “I’m not that hard up.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”

In a sudden flash of clarity he understands that she isn’t talking about alcohol or red sand but the other thing, the thing that couldn’t be distilled or extracted or precipitated by anything but the heart beating out in terror of it’s own incipient extinction. That heady cocktail of fear and determination, the heightened sense of meaning and lucidity that came on the heels of each near death experience- that is his true addiction. Ten times stronger than the tidal pull of sand, infinitely sweeter than the golden horosk sweating in its glass; the clean, righteous feeling of his gun in his hands and his enemy in his sights. That is what she is offering, that is what her arrangement will grant him, and already he can feel himself straining towards it like a drowning man reaching for a life-raft.

It must show on his face, because when he looks back up her gaze is triumphant. She’s hooked him, and she knows it. Garrus swallows hard.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, but even to his own ears it sounds weak, half-hearted.

“If you’d told me that the first time I sent Bray to bring you in, I might have believed it,” Aria says. “But I saw you out there.” Her smile is sharp enough to cut glass. “You enjoyed yourself.”

He looks away, unable to hold her gaze. “You expect me to kill on your word?”

“Run your own reconnaissance, if it makes you feel better. You’re free to decline a contract if you decide they aren’t your type. But nobody does business on Omega without getting their hands dirty. Especially not the kind of people who wind up on my blacklist.” She skims one finger over the seam of the leather upholstery. “If your conscience is giving you trouble, try running their names through CSEC’s criminal database. I promise you’ll find the results illuminating.”

She’s offering him a job as a hired killer, Garrus reminds himself. No matter what kind of reckoning these people have earned, there’s no justice in gunning them down in the streets for money. And yet the prospect of fighting back against the gangs that have a chokehold on this station is more tempting than it should be. He knows he’s not cut out to be a hero. He’d proven that when he’d allowed the Council to pit his ambition against his principles, twisting his morals and ideals into knots to suit their own ends. But he’s always been damned good at killing. To have a purpose again, maybe even do some good…

Garrus shakes his head. He needs to get the hell out of here before he agrees to any part of this insane deal.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, rising from the couch.

Aria snaps her fingers, and Grizz hands her a data pad. She presses a tab, and a hologram pops up, displaying the face of a turian with dark blue markings.

“This is Ravik Asteryx,” she says. “Another one of Palaven’s prodigal sons. He was the captain of a hastatim squad on Taetrus. Liked his work a little too much.”  

Garrus’s eyes narrow. Deployed to eradicate the violent insurgencies that regularly cropped up in the outer colonies, the hastatim were trained to use lethal force to subdue their own people. That kind of work was difficult to compartmentalize. Prevailing opinion among the Legion was that hastatim soldiers had a habit of winding up mad, bad, or dead. Whether or not that was true, there was no doubt that it was a detail that chewed you up and spat you out.

“When the Hierarchy tried to relieve him of duty, he went AWOL,” Aria continues. “Took his whole team with him. Now he works for the Blue Suns, running cargo from the Mactare System to the Kite’s Nest.” She smiles. “His ‘merchandise’ tends to have a pretty short shelf-life.”

A slaver. Garrus's mandibles twitch with disgust. With difficulty he pulls his gaze away from the hologram back to Aria. “Why do you care?”

She snorts. “For starters, he’s severely behind on his docking fees.” She looks up and shares a knowing grin with her bodyguards. “Thinks it’s beneath him to do business with barefaced scum like Grizz.”

Garrus hesitates. Then, cursing himself for a fool, he reaches out out for the data pad.

Aria pulls it back before he can take it.

“You can think it over for as long as you want,” she says, holding his gaze. “But his cargo’s going to be in batarian space by this time next week.”

Garrus’s jaw tightens. Glaring at her, he yanks the data pad out of her grip.

Aria relinquishes it without protest. “His team is loyal. Kill him, you’ll have to kill them all,” she says, unperturbed. “Do it without attracting too much attention, you’ll get paid, and maybe we’ll have this talk again.” She shrugs. “Or maybe you dump that in nearest trash heap and go back to drinking yourself to death. It’s not my problem.” She waves a hand, and Grizz and Bray step forward, pulling him up by his shoulders. They usher him down the stairs, leaving him standing at the edge of the dance floor.

Garrus hangs back for a moment, looking down at the datapad in his hand. He knows he should go back to the squat and weigh his options, take some time to consider what his next move should be. But he can still hear her words echoing in his head. 

 _‘_ _Your own personal war_.’ 

The itching under his plates increases, and all at once he feels dizzy with need. Like a compass needle, his head rotates until he’s facing the bar.

Business in the club has picked up. Most of his fellow regulars have already been crowded out by the flashy mix of criminals and mercenaries that form the savage glitterati of Omega’s storied nightlife. He takes one of the few remaining seats at the counter.

Leaning over the bar, he turns his attention to information on the datapad. He’s so intent on reading it that it takes him a minute to realize someone’s calling to him.

Blinking, he looks up to find a drink on the counter in front of him, and Surena giving him a slightly amused glance. He reaches for his credit chit, but she waves him off.

“On the house,” she says, speaking loud enough to be heard over the din of the crowd.

He’s about to thank her when she leans in on her elbows.

“It’s not so bad, working for her,” she says, nodding upward, as if he needed any clarification. “The pay’s good. She takes care of her people.” She hesitates for a moment, then continues in a lower voice. “And she has connections, even on the Citadel. She could help you find out what happened to your friend, maybe even track down the guy that did it-”

“I don’t need any help with that,” he says curtly, shoving his stool back from the bar.  And before she can say another word he stands up and walks away, leaving the drink sitting untouched on the counter.

She probably assumes he’s being rude, or that he’s too proud to ask for assistance. Or maybe she thinks he’s lost his nerve, that he’s just another washed-up ex-soldier with a skinful of dope and a lifetime’s worth of regrets. She might even be right. But the fact is, Garrus is simply telling the truth.

He doesn’t need anyone to help him put together the pieces of Shepard’s death.  

He already knows exactly what happened that day on the Citadel.

The crowd thickens as Garrus crosses the dance floor. The music is louder now, the deep bass thumping like a second pulse in his ears, the lights strobing red and purple over the mass of people gathered in the club. He pushes his way blindly toward the exit. Outside the crush of bodies gives way to open space, but he barely notices, oblivious to everything but the familiar cavalcade of facts cycling relentlessly through his head.

How the killer had staked out a spot high in the ducts, waiting for his victim to arrive at the designated meeting place. How he had tracked her movement with his rifle as she made her way through the plaza of the Orbital Lounge, her face magnified through the lens of his scope, so that he saw the exact moment her eyes had widened in realization and recognition. How the killer’s hands had trembled when she’d stood frozen in place, staring back him. The killer had expected her to run, to call for backup, to do anything other than just stand there looking up at him, her face pale and resigned.

When she’d stripped off her chest-plate, the killer had silently readjusted his sights so that his crosshairs came to rest just under her breastbone, instead of between her eyes.

He had not let himself think about what she was sparing him by giving him a clean shot at her heart. He had not let himself think about anything at all.

Garrus doesn’t need anyone to help him find Shepard’s killer for this simple reason: he had killed her himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [bang Bang](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qgDrpWWxuto)


	2. Hanging On the Old Barbed Wire

Garrus knew that he wouldn’t get to walk away unscathed after destroying the thing he loved most in the galaxy. But he hadn’t expected to lose so many parts of himself along with Shepard that day on the Citadel.

The young sniper who could take pride in the skills that had made him the top-ranked combatant in his regiment. The idealistic soldier who believed in the wisdom of the Council and his duty to serve their interests. The hidden romantic who had always secretly considered it the role of a strong turian male to protect and watch over his partner.

These were the identities that Garrus lost, the parts that had sickened and died when the round left his gun and hit Shepard’s chest with the force of a small explosive, liquefying the soft tissues of her sternum and the vital organs that lay curled within her thoracic cavity. Garrus knew this for a fact, because the view through his scope had been as clear and focused as it was unforgiving, and because he had not allowed himself to look away.

Yet as he tallied up the missing pieces, he realized that a few other things had gone unaccountably absent as well. His confidence in his own leadership had vanished sometime in the preceding year. His ability to sleep at night had been drastically impacted, though that was only to be expected. And of course his capacity for trust, in anyone, ever again had been stripped away from him long before that fatal moment on the Citadel.

He still had his sniper rifle.

That and whatever else he had left, he took to Omega.

...

His first night on the station, he slipped down to the red-lit tubes that ran beneath the residential slums of the Kima district. Walking along the pitted concrete, he felt the muted rumble of the repurposed mining equipment that kept the asteroid habitable reverberating up through the soles of his boots. Without the background static of voices and skycar traffic, the dull roar of the gravitational field generators rang even louder in his ears. The sound was maddeningly irregular, like a shuttle engine struggling to lift off, and not for the first time he wondered how anyone who lived here could stand the constant barrage of noise.

Maybe after a while it just faded into the background.

The mind was funny that way. Given a prolonged exposure to stressful surroundings, it would start to filter out unpleasant stimuli. Stick around anywhere or anyone for long enough and eventually you became blind, deaf, complacent as a bird with a cloth over it’s cage. If you weren’t careful, you might not even notice anything had changed.

Of course, it took time for the eyes to stop seeing and the ears to stop hearing, for the brain to numb itself to the self-preservation instincts that urged caution and vigilance in the face of repeated warnings.

Present circumstances being what they were, Garrus preferred to take a more direct approach.

The red tinted fluorescent lighting buzzed and flickered overhead. Shadows of wary vorcha scuttled around the edges of his vision like cockroaches, disappearing whenever he glanced at them straight on. The air in the tunnel was thick with their stench, hot and fetid as varren breath, undercut by the ferric tang of rust and blood.

Something behind him snarled, and he heard the brittle scrape of claws against concrete. He stopped and leaned back against a wall, his posture relaxed and unthreatening. Anybody stupid enough to come down here unarmed wouldn’t live long enough to regret their mistake, but he kept his guns holstered, his hands loose at his sides.

Finally one of them was brave enough to approach him, it’s yellow eyes narrowed with hatred and suspicion.

“Twenty credits for bag,” it hissed, shifting back on it’s toes, as if it half expected him to aim a kick at it. When he nodded, the vorcha’s eyes brightened, and it clicked it’s tongue against long, greying teeth. “Good product. Pure.”

Garrus had his doubts about the veracity of that statement. But he dropped the requested amount into its clawed hands all the same, and with his new purchase tucked into his armor, he headed back up to the slums.

It didn’t take him long to find an abandoned squat with filthy, half boarded up windows and a stained mattress shoved up against the center wall. He tried to clear out the worst of the trash; used up credit chits, broken bottles with the labels peeling off in strips, greasy food wrappers piled up in bags, detritus of the lives that blew in and out of this place like styrofoam, flimsy as the litter they’d left behind. Sinking down in a corner, he unstrapped his gun and began to remove his armor piece by piece. He pulled off the top section of his undersuit, and brought out the little plastic bag he’d purchased from the vorcha along with the kit he’d obtained earlier in the marketplace.

For a moment he stared down at his hands.

When he and Sol were still in primary there’d been a tramp who’d taken up residence in the memorial park not far from their home. Sol had never let him venture too close, but Garrus remembered peering curiously at the ragged tent pitched in the trees behind the dedication plaque, hoping for a glimpse of the wild man in the shadows. One morning on their way to school they’d found the tramp singing as he paced back and forth in front of the plaque. His feet were bare, his plates dulled by filth, yet his voice rang out clear and steady as any of their field instructors. 

 _“If you want to find the General, I know where he is_.

 _I know where he is, I know where he is_.”

He’d winked at them with one bright eye as they walked past, and Garrus had registered with surprise that he wore the emblem of the 26th Armigers wrapped around his right arm.

The song was simple but catchy, with a jaunty melody that made it easy to hum without quite realizing you were doing it. Garrus had liked it so much he spent the rest of the day singing it to anyone who would listen, despite repeated reprimands from his teachers. This was before he’d learned that there were three kinds of soldiering songs: the kind you sang in front of your CO, the kind you sang with your regiment in the mess halls, and the kind you sang when the fight had gone on too long and you didn’t give a damn who heard you anymore. Contrary to what one might assume, given that the second type tended to grow more obscene with each new chorus, it was the third kind that would land you in real trouble, as Garrus discovered later that evening when his father got home.

The next time he went to the park the tent was gone, and in the little copse of trees where it had been stood a freshly erected sign prohibiting loiterers and vagrants. But Garrus saw that someone had left a sprig of bright silver leaves on top of the old stone memorial.

Back in the squat, he shook his head, and opened up the kit. The rubber tourniquet made a sturdy noose around his left arm, and he yanked it tight with his teeth. His talons were steady as he added water to the reddish-brown powder, heating it until it bubbled, taking care to filter the solution before drawing it up into the syringe. Humming under his breath, he let the shining tip of the needle find its way to a vein in the soft skin beneath a plate. Slowly he plunged the stopper down, letting the tourniquet slip loose from his jaws, his head lolling back against the wall.

Outside the window, a glowing advertisement cycled through a series of relentlessly upbeat recordings illustrated in screaming neon.  _Try Tupari Sports Drink, now available in dextro-amino acids. At Solar Electronics, we find deals so you don’t have to. Serrice Technology: Power, Precision, Elegance. Hungry? Why not pick up a stick of Burgat, the Other Blue Meat._

Garrus closed his eyes, trying to block out the words. He could feel the drug unspooling inside him, simultaneously numbing and warming as it traveled through his blood. The background noise began to recede into cool, blessed silence.

When he opened his eyes, everything had lost focus. Neon light flickered soundlessly through the half boarded-up windows. Softened by the dirty glass, it suffused the room in washed out blues and reds, bringing the drab walls alive with color and illuminating the tiny particles of dust that drifted lazily through the air.

From under heavy lids Garrus watched the flashes of light stretch out longer and longer, until they aligned with the slow throb of his heartbeat.

Red, blue, red, blue, red, blue.

With a long sigh he sank down further against the wall, the syringe slipping out of his fingers and his eyes going half closed. And when he was dreaming he didn’t know it at first, because her body beside his was bathed in red and then blue _._

She was humming. He thought maybe she had been for awhile. But it was only when she started to sing that he recognized the song.

_If you want to find the General, I know where he is,_

_I know where he is, I know where he is_

_If you want to find the General, I know where he is_

_He’s pinning another medal on his chest._

Garrus grinned. “Didn’t know you sang,” he said over his shoulder.

She had her back to him, and out of the corner of his eyes he saw her shoulders roll up in a shrug.

_You know how it is once you get something stuck in your head._

There was something dark seeping through the back of her shirt. He blinked, but she had started singing again, the words lilting out in her low contralto.

_If you want to find the Councillor, I know where he is,_

_I know where he is, I know where he is_

_If you want to find the Councillor, I know where he is_

_He’s sitting in comfort stuffing his bloody gut._

His grin slipped away. Sparatus was well beyond such comforts now. In his mind’s eye, Garrus once again saw the Destiny Ascension burst into flames, a hot hail of wreckage and debris raining down on them from the Citadel arms, screams and prayers dissolving into empty static as the comms abruptly went dead. He shook his head, glancing back at her. In the soft blue light the stain on her back blossomed out into sinister rorschach blots that spread further the longer he watched.

A cold ripple of fear ran down his spine. “Shepard,” he said, reaching over to tug at her arm. The light shifted red again, and her voice rang out louder, cutting through the silence of the empty room.

_If you want the old battalion, I know where they are,_

_I know where they are, I know where they are,_

_If you want the old battalion, I know where they are-_

“Don’t,” he said, pulling her into his arms.

 _You don’t like that one?_   She coughed, and spat something dark into the corner of the room, but she let him cradle her across his lap. He could feel her blood pooling in slow rivulets down his waist. His arms tightened around her.  _Would you prefer ‘Die for the Cause’?_

“No,” he said, closing his eyes. He’d held her like this once before, when she was still alive, and he was still a soldier. They’d taken heavy fire in a protracted skirmish with the Geth. He’d had to carry her back to the Mako. He’d been amazed at how light she was, even in full plate armor, as if the animating force within her carried some tangible weight that vanished along with consciousness.

He felt her head settle under his chin, her hand reaching up to stroke his mandible.

_Garrus._

He caught her wrist and kissed her palm before she could pull away.

_Garrus, look at me._

Slowly he opened his eyes. When he looked down he saw her chest was torn open from his gun again, just like he knew it would be, the bones and sinew glistening where the skin had come off, red and raw and dripping. His breath caught, and he heard a choked, broken noise come out of his own mouth. She was only a shadow, he tried to tell himself, nothing more than a dim memory of the woman he’d once loved. But he was already pressing his forehead against hers, burying his talons in her hair, and when she kissed him he tasted the warm salt of her blood running into his mouth and down the back of his throat.

...

When he woke up the industrial din of the station was throbbing in his ears twice as loud as before, and there was the moment of blank confusion that always came before his memory returned. Too soon the knowledge of where he was and what he had done settled back down on him like a crushing weight, all the heavier for having been briefly lifted. Yet even lying there sweat-soaked and shaking in some Omega flop, he couldn’t truly be sorry that she was haunting him. Anything was better than losing her completely.

It felt right that she should be there with him while he suffered.

Those were the terms he’d agreed to when he’d accepted what he had to do; when he had finally understood that even loving her wasn’t going to be enough to stop him from taking the shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The lyrics referenced in the fic & title are from an old WW1 song. [If you like you can listen to a version here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lFP3SoYORSA))


End file.
